


Hide The Damage

by Jay_eagle



Series: Moving In [7]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst and Feels, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, caring!Douglas, concealment of illness, depressed!Martin, martin!whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin becomes depressed, but can't tell anyone - least of all Douglas. Can anyone arrest his downward spiral?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NB - Please note triggers in tags and don't read if any are likely to affect you. There are no graphic descriptions of self-injury, or details of implements, numbers etc.

Martin felt it coming just five months after he’d moved in with Douglas. It crept up on him, at first, as it always had: a nagging, pernicious sadness that seemed to nip at his heels when he was alone or the portacabin was quiet. Initially, he could ignore it – shake it off, tell himself he was having a bad day, that he’d be better tomorrow.

 

But then ‘bad day’ slipped into ‘bad week’ and then ‘bad month’, and with a sinking feeling of mingled distress and fear, he knew. He was in for another bout.

 

He couldn’t tell Douglas.

 

* * *

 

Reflecting after the fact, he’d realised that he had had his first experience of it when he was seventeen, when he was going through a particularly sour spell in his relationship with his family. Signing up for A levels (rather than an apprenticeship in the electrical firm his Dad worked for) had precipitated a wounded coolness in the Crieff household that Martin found difficult to bear.

 

No doctors, that time; instead he’d struggled on for six months, feeling constantly as if he was wading through treacle, before he started to feel better. His mother remarked on the change in him one day and he appreciated – suddenly, yes, there was a point to things again.

 

But seventeen never thinks about things too much. Martin filed the half-year away under ‘stressful’ and ‘don’t want to think about’ and moved on, sitting his exams and just about getting the grades he needed to train as a pilot.

 

Except that then all the colleges rejected him.

 

That time, it was serious enough that his mother frog-marched him to the doctor, where he got his diagnosis: clinical depression. Common enough, maybe, and the tablets that were the NHS’ sole answer to the problem at the time did help (once they’d stopped giving him vivid dreams and making him nauseated). All Martin cared about was whether the verdict was sufficient to stop him flying.

 

He was relieved to find out that as long as he’d finished his treatment by the time it came for his exams, the CAA would let him qualify. Throwing himself into his (now privately-funded) studies, fitting them around his two rubbish jobs – as a cleaner and a barman – proved to be a distraction, and the swooping joy of being at the controls at long, long, last was able to penetrate even the thick, emotionless fug that seemed to surround his brain at other times. Gradually, the depression lifted, and while it had nibbled at him from time to time since, it had never again been as severe as that ghastly era of nothingness... Until now.

 

Not that anyone would have known to look at him, of course. Captain Martin Crieff was far too good an actor for that. He wouldn’t even necessarily have classed it as acting, either: surely it was his duty, as the commander of the vessel, to stay in good spirits, to lead from the front, to make sure his MJN family was just as motivated and as mad and as cheerful as ever?

 

And with Douglas – for goodness’ sake, he thought, the man had little enough reason to be with him already. Besides which, who’d want a miserable housemate? So he kept smiling, responded to Douglas’ caresses, played the part of the perfect boyfriend, companion, lover. He could do it. He’d be _fine_.

 

* * *

 

Two months into Martin’s bad spell, and one day he picked up the phone when it rang. Douglas had popped out to the shops, and Martin was surprised to hear the wheezy voice of Douglas’ father on the other end. Martin still hadn’t met him, though Douglas had introduced them over the phone; his dad had severe emphysema and the whistling, labored breaths had given the elder Mr Richardson's identity away before he’d spoken a word.

 

“Hello, Martin. How are… _gasp, wheeze_ … you?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Martin’s response was automatic, but was now accompanied by the guilty curl he got in his chest every time he uttered the lie. “How are you?”

 

“Oh, ticking along, ticking along… Is Dougie in?”

 

“I’m afraid he’s popped out for a few minutes. Would you like me to take a message? Or get him to call you back?”

 

“Will you let him know – his Aunt Helen passed away this morning? His late mother’s sister.”

 

“Oh. Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

 

“Thanks. She was 92, so not a bad innings, really… and she’d almost no family left, except us. I’ve got to phone a few others, but tell Dougie he’s free to try me if he wants.”

 

“I will do.” Martin hung up, pensively.

 

When Douglas returned half an hour later, Martin broke the news, snuggling against him as he knew he should – even if he didn’t particularly feel like the closeness just then. He’d not heard Douglas talk about his extended family much, but knowing the first officer’s guardedness about personal matters, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be upset at the loss.

 

Douglas hugged him warmly back, and was quiet for a few minutes. “I liked her,” he said eventually. “She used to run a butcher’s shop in Abergavenny with her husband. Always made sure we got the best turkey in the shop for Christmas. Lamb at Easter, too.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Martin felt guilty again. He was trying so hard to summon up something besides numbness, as usual, but his mind was failing him; he still felt as remote and detached as if Douglas were on a desert island a thousand miles away rather than enveloped in his embrace.

 

“Hmm. Thanks.” Douglas held him closer, pressing a soft kiss to Martin’s temple. Still nothing inside him in reaction. Martin shut his eyes against a flicker of rising panic. _Where have my emotions gone?_

 

“I’d better try calling Dad.” Douglas uncoiled himself from Martin, leaving him standing, eyes still closed, suddenly longing for Douglas to come back, to make him feel better, to take it all away. _Selfish Martin._ You _should be comforting him_.

 

* * *

 

The upshot of Douglas’ bereavement, to Martin’s well-concealed dismay, was that Douglas took a week off work to attend the funeral and to help his brother to clear out their aunt’s house in Wales. “Goodness knows how much junk she’ll have accumulated,” Douglas told Martin, with a grimace. “I can’t leave it all for Dad.”

 

“Of course not.” Martin squeezed his hand, his insides writhing. “I wish I could help.” _Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me_.

 

Douglas smiled, not spotting Martin’s dread. “No need. Besides, Carolyn would have a fit if we tried to combine our time off more than once a year…”

 

“Wouldn’t she just.” Martin turned away.

 

 _Just a week. One week, and he’ll be back. Maybe then you’ll start feeling better_.

 

* * *

Their house was so empty without Douglas in it. Martin wandered from room to room, aimlessly picking up small items that reminded him of his FO, turning them over, putting them back. He’d had a couple of texts to let him know Douglas had arrived safely, that the house clearing was progressing, but the signal there was patchy. Cartainly not strong enough to call him. And what would he say if he did? _Douglas, I’m sad_? He couldn’t. How could he explain the gnawing emptiness, without it sounding like an insult? Without it upsetting the man he loved most in the world?

 

But he wasn’t coping. He could feel it all – his precious control - gradually slipping away. Even flying, now – it seemed all the time that he was viewing his actions in the cockpit down the wrong end of a telescope; decisions feeling remote and disconnected from him. He still laughed and joked with Carolyn and Arthur, fussed and fretted as he knew he used to over landing weights and warning lights – but what did it _matter_ , really? What did any of it matter?

 

He wandered idly into the kitchen, slumped at the worktop. The washing up from his lunch needed doing, but he couldn’t be bothered. Nor did he want to watch TV, or listen to the radio. He wanted Douglas. Wanted to hold him close, overwhelm himself in the nearness of him, hide in his arms until it was all gone, all better, and everything was back to how it was supposed to be.  He just wanted to feel _something_. Anything.

 

Anything…

 

The thought didn’t even feel like his when it crossed his brain, for the first time since he was 20.

 

‘ _Hurt yourself.’_

 

Martin shook his head. He’d do the washing up. He filled the sink, squirted Fairy Liquid in, watching the bubbles rise and mass, frothily white against the red bowl.

 

‘ _Go on._   _Hurt yourself.’_

 

“No,” he said aloud. He’d been down that road before. Could still call to mind the hurt and bewilderment on Caitlin’s face when she’d accidentally caught a glimpse of the row of shallow cuts patterning his arm, as neat and even as railway sleepers, back when he was receiving rejection letters from all the aviation colleges every week. She’d fled the room in tears, calling for their mother. He’d hidden it, hidden it all, wouldn’t let them see his shame again; but that was when his mum had marched him off to the GP.

 

He’d never want to cause Douglas that kind of pain, never.

 

‘ _But Douglas is away for a week. By the time he came back, you’d have healed again. He’d never know. And you’d feel better. You’d feel.’_

 

He didn’t want to. His logical, rational mind knew he didn’t want to. It had been so hard to stop, last time. To find other ways to cope with the numbness and anxiety. Nothing had ever worked quite as well as that rush of endorphins that he’d found – the distraction, the feeling that this, at least, was visible, tangible. But it wasn’t a good way to cope. It wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t.

 

‘ _Hurt yourself_.’

 

* * *

Martin’s resistance held out until the evening. It was autumn, and the nights were fast drawing in; there was a bitter chill in the air that put him off going for a walk when he poked his head out of the front door. He’d fought his thoughts so hard all day, but couldn’t bring himself to do what he knew he should – go and find someone, anyone – spend time with them instead of isolating himself indoors. It felt as if anyone he was near would either perceive his weakness in feeling so low, or be infected with it themselves – and he couldn’t allow that.

 

 

 

 

 

In the end it was so simple to give in. He remembered being surprised at how easy it was to endure the pain, when he’d first done this – how instead he’d concentrated on the visual, had felt floaty and free of his normally whirling thoughts at last. Now, it turned out that the feeling was easy to recapture – it was so much better to have this to focus on, to have a clear plan, to have some sort of mastery. This, he could regiment and rule – it was his pain, and he was causing it. This was identifiable, numberable, controllable. For the half an hour that he was hurting himself, he was in charge again, at last, and it felt… not good, exactly, but not bad. And not bad was about the best he was hoping for.

 

Yet he wasn’t prepared for the crashing agony when he stopped. Not physical pain – not really – the endorphins surging through his body took care of that. It was the emotional wallop in the gut that took him aback, bent him unexpectedly double with grief and guilt. _What have I done? Fuck. Fifteen years, down the drain._ _You_ idiot _, Martin Crieff. You idiot._

 

At least the evidence would be gone by the time Douglas came home next week. Even if it wasn’t quite, quite gone, it was just the underside of his arm – he could hide it, Douglas would never notice. Douglas mustn’t know. Must never, never see.

 

* * *

 

The sound of a key in the door the following lunchtime, then, caused him to spring upright from the sofa with a lurch of fear.


	2. Chapter 2

“Martin? Love? I’m back!”

 

Martin frantically yanked on the hoodie that – _thank Christ_ – he’d had next to him in the lounge. Douglas poked his head round the door just as he’d got it on.

 

“You’re home!” Martin tried to fill his voice with happiness, rather than nerves, concealing the surge of guilt by racing to hug his partner. “You said you wouldn’t be back till Tuesday!”

 

Douglas cuddled enthusiastically into him, dropping the suitcase he carried by his side. “Turned out that Aunt Helen had obviously been preparing for this, bless her.” He drew Martin gently over to the sofa, flopping them down so that they were entwined together. “She’d already organised pretty much everything – it was all ready, even labeled in most cases.” Martin felt Douglas kissing his hair above his forehead. “There wasn’t much to do, it’s all sorted. So I thought I’d surprise you by driving all the way back this morning.”

 

Martin buried his face in Douglas’ neck, a swell of pure terror flooding his chest. “Th-thank you,” he choked out.

 

Douglas hugged him tighter, causing Martin’s sleeve to rub against his forearm. He could barely suppress the hiss of pain, only just registering Douglas saying “I missed you, darling.”

 

“I missed you too.” Martin was in agony, the truth of the words slicing afresh into his tortured body. _I missed you. But you can’t see. You mustn’t know_.

 

Feeling Douglas starting to slide a warm hand up his back, always a prelude to more… intimate attentions, Martin leapt up. “Lunch?” he asked, his voice high-pitched with tension.

 

Douglas looked surprised, but nodded. “Sounds good.” He beamed at Martin. “Then, how about an afternoon on the sofa?” He patted the cushion beside him invitingly.

 

“I, I can’t,” Martin invented, wildly. “I’ve got a job with the van.”

 

“Oh.” Disappointment was evident in Douglas’ tone.

 

“I’m sorry.” The fist clutching Martin’s guts tugged again. He’d forgotten the deceit that went hand in hand with his… habit, in the past. “I didn’t know you’d be home.”

 

“No problem,” Douglas managed to smile. “I’ll just have to cook you the best romantic dinner the world has ever seen.”

 

Martin gulped.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Martin laid down his cutlery with a sigh. “That was delicious,” he praised.

 

Douglas preened. “So glad you liked it. Here –“ He hopped up and relieved Martin of his bowl. Setting it by the dishwasher, he turned back and grinned mischievously at the captain. “You’ve missed a bit.” He gestured towards Martin’s chin.

 

Martin dabbed at the spot indicated. “Got it?”

 

“Allow me.” Douglas swooped smoothly forwards and swiped Martin’s jawline with a thumb. He was suddenly incredibly close, his brown eyes burning into Martin’s green. Douglas exhaled lightly, his chocolate-mousse-scented breath caressing Martin’s cheek. “That’s got it.”

 

Everything in Martin was shouting at him to pull away, that only trouble and unhappiness awaited if he intensified the situation – but just then, he couldn’t listen. Douglas was back, and he was staring into his eyes, and he was Martin's – and then _fuck it_ Martin was kissing him, more passionately than he had done for weeks on end, trying desperately to see if this, this would elicit any spark of feeling inside him to burn away the numbness. He felt Douglas responding, was gathered firmly into his arms, their tongues sliding heatedly together as Douglas’ hands roamed all over him. But still – despite the ardour, despite the passion he was being lavished with – he could sense the cold, untouchable, unwanted corner of him that seemed determined to remain unmoved by anything except his mordant sadness. At the realization, he came very close to sobbing into Douglas’ mouth, but held back just in time.

 

After several minutes, Douglas finally retreated a step, chest heaving. He regarded Martin for a moment, head tipped to one side, before asking “You OK?”

 

“Fine,” Martin answered, hastily. “Fine, fine.” He stood from his chair, squeezing Douglas’ hand. “I’m – I’m going to go to bed.”

 

“ _Yes_.” Douglas flashed him a brilliant grin and pulled him at once out of the kitchen.

 

_Oh my God_. Martin had meant to sleep, had meant that he wanted to stop – he’d never manage to hide the damage he’d inflicted if Douglas wanted to fuck him. His mind raced furiously as he was led to their bedroom.

 

Just as Douglas pushed him backwards onto the duvet, reaching for his jumper, a flash of timely inspiration thankfully struck. Martin yanked Douglas downwards, pulled him on to the bed after him. He ignored Douglas’ rather shocked intake of breath. “I want to try something.” He kissed fiercely at Douglas’ neck, knowing he had to keep up the passionate display if he were to be believed.

 

“What?” Douglas’ hands had slipped under his hoodie again, were sinuously stroking the cool skin of Martin’s back.

 

Martin blushed scarlet. “Let’s… let’s pretend something?”

 

“What do you want, darling?” Douglas bit lightly at Martin’s collarbone even while his hands tried to tug Martin’s sweater upwards. Martin gave a small, hastily smothered squeak of fear, but mastered himself.

 

“Let’s pretend… we’re somewhere public. Somewhere someone might walk in any second. So…” He wriggled pointedly against Douglas’ hip. “So we have to do it like this… almost dressed. So we don’t get discovered.”

 

“Hmm…” Douglas kissed his way back up Martin’s neck, the suspense in waiting for a response making Martin tense and quiver. Douglas seemed to take it as arousal though, since he next said, breathily “We’ll have to be quiet then, Captain Crieff. So no one hears us.” He thrust his hips against Martin, and in spite of the situation – in spite of the half-lie he’d just told – Martin felt his body responding, distant excitement spiraling within him, intangible as smoke.

 

He groped for Douglas through his fly, feeling his actions reciprocated. The rhythm he set was fast and irresistible – using all his best tricks to get Douglas off speedily. It was testament to Douglas’ own skill that he managed to jerk Martin to completion just a few minutes later despite the captain’s anxiety, Martin clutching at Douglas desperately and moaning under his breath.

 

Part of him had fleetingly enjoyed it, of course. But – as Martin slipped into his only set of winter pyjamas in the privacy of the en-suite afterwards – he knew he still felt just as hollow as before.

 

Martin made his way back to bed and nuzzled into Douglas’ ribs, feeling shame swamping him once more. He hadn’t exactly told a lie – the fantasy he’d described had brought him off in a lonely hotel room more than once over the years – but he felt terrible about the reason behind revealing it. _Heal, damn you_ , he instructed his body furiously. _Heal_.

 

If only his mind would listen too.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Martin awoke groggily, curled up on his front next to Douglas. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, and he still felt exhausted to his very core. A massive yawn cracked his jaw, and he flinched, embarrassed, covering his mouth.

 

“There you are.” Douglas’ voice was soft, and something in Martin suddenly melted a tiny bit. Douglas had apparently been lying back and watching him slumber against his chest. “Sleep well?”

 

Martin nodded, reaching up and running his hand absently down Douglas’ cheek, stroking his earlobe. “You?”

 

Douglas rumbled acquiescence, covering Martin’s hand on his ear with his own broad palm. “It’s so good to wake up with you again.”

 

It took a beat for Martin’s distracted brain to realise that he should respond affectionately. “You too,” he said hastily, and stretched his arm upwards to card his fingers through Douglas’ greying hair. So anxious was he to maintain the ‘everything’s-fine’ act that he failed to notice his pyjama sleeve slipping back an inch with his movement.

 

“Martin?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Martin….” Douglas’ hand was gripping his wrist suddenly, a lightning-fast reflex that Martin had no hope of dodging. Martin froze, ice stopping his heart. “What’s… what’s this?”

 

Martin opened his mouth, but no lie sprang forth – he had nothing, nothing he could say. A terrified whimper was all he could manage to utter.

 

But then - Douglas tried to slide his sleeve back further… and he was wrenching his hand free and leaping out of bed and running down the hall, and Douglas was pounding after him and crying his name, sobbing it after him – and he’d ruined _everything, everything_ … All he could think to do was to bolt into the bathroom and try and lock Douglas out. Because he’d seen. And it was too close, all too close. Everything was falling away from him. He’d lost control.

 

Martin couldn’t even manage to keep Douglas out of the bathroom, though. He hadn’t quite managed to turn the key when Douglas burst in after him, knocking him unintentionally backwards to the ground. Martin looked up for a second, the shock taking his breath away, but the sight of Douglas’ face – twisted in pain and fear and worry – he couldn’t bear it. The ferocious panic in him was burning like wildfire, and he needed to _get away_ – so he scrambled frantically backwards on his hands and rear, scooting till his back bumped the bath and he could go no further. He wanted to wail, to disappear. Burying his face in his arms wasn’t a conscious decision at all. _Hide me, world, please.._.

 

“M- Martin?” A soft sound: Douglas dropping to his knees, perhaps? Martin didn’t dare peek to look. The was a rustling noise, of cloth dragging on tile, and a dim, distant part of Martin’s brain deduced that Douglas was half-shuffling, half-crawling towards him. He couldn’t look, shame hot and liquid in his throat.

 

When Douglas stroked his leg, where his knees were bent against his chest, he shuddered. A sob welled up inside him, but he couldn’t let it go.

 

“Martin. Please, please look at me.” He’d never heard Douglas sound so… broken. “Please. I’m – you’re frightening me.”

 

_No_. He didn’t want to scare Douglas. Not brilliant, beautiful, loving Douglas, whom he in no way deserved. It took everything he had, but he peeked his eyes out above his folded arms to meet Douglas’ gaze. “Sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper.

 

“What have you done, love?”

 

Martin didn’t know how to answer. The pause spiraled between them, and Martin felt the barely-contained wail in his lungs threating to burst out again. He’d never imagined Douglas could look like _this_ – wild with dread. “Please, don’t,” he managed eventually, unsure whether he meant the question or the fearful stare.

 

“I have to.” Douglas’ face creased, suddenly, but he appeared to master himself. Slowly, like a vet trying not to scare a wounded dog, he slid to sit next to Martin, sliding his hand up Martin’s leg to entwine their fingers. It didn’t escape Martin’s notice that it was his injured arm that Douglas was cradling, and he tensed, anticipating the snatch that Caitlin had made to try and see, all those years before.

 

Yet Douglas didn’t force, just held his hand, chafing the backs of Martin’s knuckles with his thumb. Martin gradually felt his fevered breathing ease a little, though it continued to feel as if his heart was still skipping every fourth beat in agitation. Hesitantly he looked sideways again, met Douglas’ eyes. “I… I don’t think I can talk about it.”

 

Douglas nodded, and Martin felt the first officer’s hand quiver against his. “Can you… show me?”

 

Martin scrunched his eyes shut. He didn’t know if he could or not. Almost without thinking, he loosed Douglas’ palm and slowly, carefully, pushed his sleeve back to his elbow. Douglas wouldn’t see anything from that angle; Martin had always, always made sure to restrict the damage to the underside of his arm. No one would hire a scarred pilot, after all.

 

_Do I… dare?_

 

He kept his eyes shut. He couldn’t take seeing Douglas’ disgust. Cautiously, he turned his arm over.

 

There was a hesitation, one so tense Martin could hardly breathe, expecting at any minute to hear Douglas getting up, storming off, slamming the door. So when Douglas took his hand again, it made him jump, his eyes flying open inadvertently - allowing him to glimpse Douglas’ expression.

 

Douglas was studying his arm, inspecting the dozens of perfectly straight, evenly-spaced cuts with tortured attention. With a pang of barbed guilt, Martin saw a tear make its way down the first officer’s face, but Douglas made no sound. He simply lifted Martin’s palm to his lips, and kissed it. Martin’s hand jerked, but he didn’t pull away.

 

“I love you.” Douglas’ words were a whisper, but they seemed as loud as a shout to Martin in the silent bathroom.

 

It was too much. Tenderness, where he’d expected revulsion; calm, where he’d anticipated a storm – the dam inside Martin broke, and suddenly he was crying, great shuddering moans that rocked him where he sat. He tucked his savaged arm back into his chest, where it ached and smarted; he felt Douglas gathering him into an enormous embrace, petting and soothing him like a child.

 

At long last, his weeping abated, and Douglas released him, sitting back on his heels. Martin still didn’t quite dare meet his gaze.

 

Douglas spoke again, though. “May I?”

 

Martin didn’t look, but nodded anyway, not even knowing what he was saying ‘yes’ to. He felt Douglas gently grasping his hand, flipping his wounds back into view. “Here.” There was the damp press of a warm flannel against the tender skin, and he choked as it stung. “Sorry, darling… I’m sorry…”

 

Douglas smoothed the flannel over the cuts, cleaning them one by one, as gently as he could. Martin watched the motion of the toweling material against his pale skin with disbelief – not daring to credit that Douglas could possibly still be here, fastidiously caring for Martin’s stupid, self-inflicted damage as lovingly as he would have done for his daughter.

 

“I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t enough. No words that Martin said could ever be enough.

 

After Douglas had made sure every single one of the small cuts was clean, he set down the flannel, and to Martin’s shock, he kissed his hand again. Completely blindsided, Martin cautiously reached his free arm to Douglas’ cheek, tracing his jaw with a tentative thumb. Douglas looked up, his eyes still glossy with unshed tears – but when he spoke, his voice was steady.

 

“Tea?”

 

Martin blinked. “Please.”

 

Douglas helped him to his feet. Martin was surprised to realise that he was shaking; he seemed to have forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. “Come on, Martin.” Douglas looped a gentle arm round Martin’s waist, and together they slowly walked to the lounge, Douglas half-supporting the captain all the way.

 

“You rest there for a second.” Douglas lowered him on to the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

 

Martin nodded mutely. “K.” He knotted his hands, then loosed them once more to distractedly tug his sleeves up to his knuckles, clenching the cuffs in his fists. “Thanks.” He couldn’t look at Douglas.

 

He was aware of Douglas regarding him for a few moments prior to heading to the kitchen. “I’ll be right back. Just… r-relax. Um. If you can…”

 

Martin had no idea what his partner could possibly be thinking. The lack of knowledge scared him – but as another quiver rippled through him, Douglas leant down and oh-so-gently kissed the top of his head before walking away to make the drinks.

 

Martin didn’t know what to say. As soon as Douglas had stepped out of the room, he wriggled backwards on the sofa, and curled up into a huddled ball again. Everything in him was still screaming at him to conceal himself or run away. He covered his hands with his ears, as if that would quell the swirling panickiness, and rocked lightly to and fro where he hunched. _This isn’t real. It can’t be real._


	3. Chapter 3

“Here you go.” Martin heard the _clunk_ of mug against coaster as Douglas set the tea down. He didn’t look up, feeling safest remaining in the ball he’d curled into. As Douglas’ hand cautiously touched his back, he jumped, but didn’t lift his head. Instead, he allowed Douglas to stroke him, until he suddenly realized he’d stopped rocking under the soothing effect of the caresses.

 

“You must think I’m insane.” The mumbled words surprised Martin as they tumbled out of his mouth without conscious consideration.

 

Douglas’ hand stilled. “No.”

 

“You’re lying.” Martin looked up at last, seeking the truth.

 

Douglas gazed back at him, his expression more troubled than Martin had ever seen it. “I wouldn’t lie, Martin. Not to you.”

 

A pang of guilt assailed the captain, as the memory of the falsehoods he’d told Douglas the day before sprang to mind. He knew his cheeks were crimson. “I didn’t have a van job yesterday.”

 

A flicker of hurt flew over Douglas’ features, but his hand stayed on Martin’s back. “Was that when you did… it?”

 

Martin shook his head. “No.” He hid his face in his arms again. “It was… while you were away.”

 

There was a long pause. Martin wondered if Douglas was about to storm out, but he didn’t hear him move.

 

“Come here. “ Douglas was tugging at his upper arm, gently. Martin was perplexed and didn’t resist, despite the shame clamouring inside him. Tenderly, Douglas drew him downwards, so that his head was resting in Douglas’ lap, Martin’s legs splaying away from them both. Douglas stroked his arm, then tangled fingers in his hair, smoothing out the tiny knots he found in the curls. Martin’s breathing gradually slowed.

 

 _He hasn’t run away_. How could Martin comprehend it? Nothing made sense.

 

At length, Douglas spoke again. “Was it the first time?” His palm stilled, and Martin could feel the tension in Douglas’ thighs beneath his cheek.

 

“No.” Douglas’ hand clenched for a second in his hair, though not so as to yank. Martin unthinkingly gripped his injured wrist with his opposing hand, a grounding spark of pain flashing firework-bright through his body. He hesitated, before continuing. “This was the first time since I was 20, though.” Douglas’ fist loosened slightly, and he resumed stroking, the slow motions unexpectedly calming Martin in spite of the worry tingling inside him.

 

“Did something happen?” Douglas’ voice was tentative.

 

“No.” Martin wanted desperately to try and explain, but it was as if something was stoppering his throat, his words getting caught before they could emerge.

 

“Then what…?” Douglas’ hand was suddenly gripping his shoulder, shaking, the tremors running through Martin as well. Douglas tugged him upright, made Martin face him. Martin’s guts squirmed, but he couldn’t avoid Douglas’ frantic eyes. Douglas took a deep breath. “Martin… are you trying to… trying to kill yourself?”

 

“What?” Martin’s eyes flew wide. He hastily covered Douglas’ hands with his, held them tightly. “No! No, no, no…” He bent his head to Douglas’, leant their foreheads together. Wanted to cry, but couldn’t. “I don’t want to die. That’s not what it is.”

 

“Then what is it? Please…” Douglas reached for Martin’s cheek, caressed him. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I don’t know if I can explain.”

 

“Please, my love. Please try.”

 

Martin had never heard Douglas sound so beseeching. He leant his head into Douglas’ broad palm, but closed his eyes. There was no way he could talk about it whilst also watching Douglas’ face – the fear of rejection, of judgment, was too real and sharp. “I haven’t done it for years. I really haven’t.”

 

“I believe you.”

 

Martin breathed deeply before continuing. “I just… I wanted to _feel_.” Douglas made a sound as if to interrupt, but Martin held a hand up to stop him. “The past couple of months…. Everything’s been slipping away from me. I – I don’t feel anything inside, not anymore. It’s like…” He searched for an analogy that Douglas would understand, and inspiration struck. “It’s like… you know Schiphol?”

 

“The airport in Amsterdam?”

 

Martin nodded. “It’s so big. I don’t know if you remember, but to get to the gates, there are travelators everywhere.”

 

“The flat escalators? I know what you mean.”

 

“Well, for the past few weeks, it’s as if I’m walking next to you all – you, Carolyn, Arthur, Herc… but you’re all on a travelator and I’m not. So you’re moving really fast – and I’m striding as best I can to keep up, but I’m having to take two steps for every one you take. And I can do it – just about. But it’s exhausting. You’re sailing on as normal, and I’m flailing in your wake, feeling like I’m trudging through syrup. And it takes so much effort, and then you were gone, and I was alone, and, and, and….” Martin’s voice wobbled. “I just couldn’t do it anymore. I felt so empty. I just wanted to feel something, because at least then I wouldn’t be hollow and dead. At least then I could focus.” He was shaking hard now, Douglas’ hand on his face feeling odd and unreal. “I never meant for you to see.”

 

“Oh, Martin.” Douglas pulled him tight into his side, warm arms round his shoulders. “You never said.”

 

“I couldn’t.” Martin’s words were muffled by Douglas’ pyjamas against his mouth. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

 

“Martin…” Douglas pulled away a little, looked him in the eye. Martin was disturbed to notice that Douglas’ were shining with tears again. “I – I – I would have wanted to help. It doesn’t matter if I’m upset.”

 

“But it does!” Martin was frantic. “You’re, you’re the most important thing.”

 

Douglas kissed his forehead unexpectedly and Martin blinked. “That’s how I feel about you.”

 

“You do?” Martin couldn’t process it. The hollow in his chest deflected the words, refused to let him believe them.

 

“Yes.” Douglas caught Martin’s chin, held it firmly. “You are. And I want to help you.”

 

Martin cast his eyes down. “I don’t see how.”

 

“You said this happened when you were 20.”

 

Martin shook his head. “ _This_ did.” He gestured at his arm, now covered by his thick sleeve. “But I felt different. I had depression, then – I felt miserable, constantly.”

 

“How did this start, a couple of months ago?”

 

Martin pondered. “The same, I suppose. I felt so unhappy… all the time.” He shivered. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t anything.”

 

“I never knew,” Douglas muttered, almost to himself.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to apologise, not ever.” Douglas was fierce. “I should have noticed.”

 

“No,” Martin shook his head. “I didn’t want you to see. I – I felt like I was insulting you.”

 

“Depression’s not personal. You weren’t trying to spite me.”

 

“Depression?” Martin was bewildered. “I thought it was that. But it can’t be – it’s not like it was when I was younger. I don’t feel depressed, not anymore. I don’t feel _anything_.” He stood up in a burst of frustration, unconsciously pressing his thumb into his injured arm so a spike of pain jabbed through him. “I don’t understand. How is it possible to feel so numb? Like nothing is even real?” Douglas stood too, hands raised pacifyingly, but Martin barrelled on. “I keep feeling like I’m seeing life from a million miles off. Except when I was hurting myself. Then - then I was present. Then I was here, and I could focus, even though I knew it was bad, knew it’s not allowed.” Martin flung his head back, feeling tears prickling at the corners of his vision against his will. “And now I’ve stopped, and all the feeling’s gone away, and the only way to bring it back is to – to –“ He made an abortive jerk with his arm, but abruptly the agitation drained away. “I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”

 

“Hey.” Douglas leaned to embrace him again. “We’ll get this sorted.”

 

“We?” Martin sniffed, tilting into Douglas’ warm bulk.

 

“Of course, we.” Douglas stroked his back. “I think you _have_ got depression again, even if it feels different than before.”

 

Martin shuddered, but didn’t disagree with him, drawing inexplicable comfort from resting against Douglas in a way he hadn’t felt for weeks.

 

“We just have to pop you along to the doctor, and then –“

 

Martin lurched backwards. “The doctor?” His heart was suddenly racing with fear. “No, no, no. I can’t – I won’t –“

 

Douglas stepped towards him. “Martin –“

 

“No! You know the regulations! They’ll stop me flying – the CAA – you’re not allowed to fly with depression –“

 

“You’ll have to have some time off, yes.” Douglas caught his elbow. “But only till the treatment starts working.”

 

“You sit next to me. You wouldn’t let me put us in danger. I’m not a danger to GERTI, Douglas, you know I’m not…” Martin felt tears spill down his cheeks.

 

Douglas made a noise of distress. “Love. You can’t go without treatment just so you can keep flying.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

“I am! I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Martin babbled, the room a blur through the teardrops. “I’m fine… I –“ His knees went from under him. It was as if he’d forgotten how to stand.

 

“Steady!” Douglas stepped forward and caught him just in time, lowering them both gently to the floor.

 

The wail Martin had been subduing ever since Douglas first caught sight of his wrist was in his mouth, ready to burst free. “I’m OK.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

_Douglas isn’t heartless, why is he being so cruel?_

 

He was being twisted and pulled into Douglas’ lap, all curled back in his small ball, trying to disappear into himself. "I'm fine."

 

Douglas’ voice, calm and insistent, broke into his efforts to vanish. “You aren't.”

 

“I am. I am.” Martin was whimpering now, and some distant part of himself was disgusted, but he couldn’t help it.

 

Douglas didn’t seem to care either, judging by the tightness with which he was hugging Martin. “You are _not_  fine, Captain.” He kissed at Martin’s temple, smoothed his hair back from his damp forehead. “But you will be. We’ll get you seen to. Get you through this.”

 

Had Martin thought his emotions were a distant memory? Now the hollow was gone, swamped by the tsunami of misery pouring out of him, his whole body wracked by the harsh sobs he couldn’t suppress. This was agony, this was horrible, this was more than he’d ever wanted to feel and it wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t abate…

 

But Douglas was still there, rocking him back and forth, hushing him gently, his thumbs blotting the tear-tracks from Martin’s mottled cheeks, until Martin hiccupped himself gradually into silence.

 

They sat quietly for a long time, tea forgotten - the morning creeping away around them, and Douglas’ arms encompassing Martin like a shield.

 

At last Douglas leant forward, so his breath tickled Martin’s ear, startling him out of his agonized reverie. “You’re mine, Martin Crieff.” His hands covered Martin’s, reassuringly. “This sodding illness isn’t having you. We’re going to get you back.”

 

And despite the anguish gnawing at the depths of his being, Martin believed him. Douglas never failed. He trusted Douglas.

 

“OK.”

 

Douglas kissed him. “OK.”


	4. Epilogue

“Douglas, why are you being so mysterious?” Martin chased his partner, who was striding a few steps ahead. It was three months after the fateful day that Douglas had returned from Wales, and Martin hadn’t worked since. He’d been going gradually stir-crazy knocking round the house – he’d cleaned everything at least four times a week and expanded his cooking repertoire enormously, waiting for the anti-depressants and counselling to pay off properly so he could go back to piloting GERTI. It had been agony for him to see Douglas going off to work each week – even more so when Carolyn had managed to coax a former Ryanair captain out of retirement to cover for his absence, grateful though he was that MJN wouldn’t go under because of his sick leave.

 

To be fair to Douglas, he had done his best to take care of Martin, had seemed to intuit the conflicting, anxious feelings surging inside him - and he had done everything he could to soothe and comfort without making Martin feel patronized or belittled. But Martin had still fretted, had still struggled to find the equilibrium that he would need in order to fly again. The tablets were working, now, and the suffocating numbness had died away, giving him his emotions back – but Martin continued to feel that he wasn’t getting better fast enough, a paranoid part of him just waiting for Douglas to announce that he’d had enough moroseness and that Martin had better move out.

 

It had taken Martin totally by surprise when Douglas’ suggestion of ‘an afternoon out’ that day had turned out to be an excursion to London. They’d been going out together at least once a week, even when Martin didn’t feel like it. Douglas was gentle in his persuasion, but he refused to let Martin hide from the world. Their trips had usually just been around Fitton, though - never as far afield as the capital.

 

Martin caught up to him at last. “Douglas – where are we going?”

 

Douglas grinned sideways at him, walking springily and fast so Martin had to half-jog to keep up. “Wait and see, _mon capitaine_.”

 

Martin tried not to get side-tracked by the wave of relief and comfort that he always felt that Douglas still called him that, even when he hadn’t flown for 12 weeks. “Will I like it?” Curiosity was vivid in him now.

 

“I expect so. I hope so.” Douglas took Martin’s smaller hand in his large, warm palm. “Aha. Here we are.” He came to a halt at the foot of an incredibly tall, shiny building.

 

Martin gazed upwards. “The Shard? Why are we here?” He was perplexed. The skyscraper loomed above them both, and he craned his neck to try to see the top.

 

Douglas simply smiled mysteriously at him. “Come inside.” He led Martin in through the revolving doors, and they headed for the lifts. “Come on.”

 

Martin felt his ears pop as the glossy lift shot them upwards, floors ticking rapidly by on the digital display. He leant into Douglas’ side and was snuggled close into his partner’s soothing bulk, Douglas’ thumb stroking the back of his hand softly.

 

After nearly a minute, the doors slid open with a _swish_ , and Douglas ushered Martin forward into one of the most beautiful rooms he had seen in his entire life. A discreet logo under the prettily illuminated central column read ‘ _The View From The Shard_ ’. He turned to Douglas, still all at sea. “Where are we?”

 

Douglas beamed. “London’s highest champagne bar.” He turned and walked further into the room, heading for the glossiest space within it, an entertainments area with stools ranged round a highly polished counter, gleaming in the golden light. He called back over his shoulder to Martin. “Drink?”

 

Martin scampered warily after him. “You know I can’t. The tablets.”

 

“Nor can I. Never stopped me.” Douglas reached the bar, and immediately caught the waitress' eye – Martin had always theorized that the first officer must secretly have some sort of inner magnet for bar staff, as Douglas unfailingly got served at once no matter how many fellow customers were actually ahead of him in the queue. “Two Appletisers, please. In champagne flutes.” He smiled devilishly at the girl behind the counter.

 

“Right away, sir. Where will you be sitting?”

 

“I’ve booked a window seat.”

 

“Do take your table then, sirs. I’ll bring those over to you.”

 

Martin took Douglas’ hand again, feeling lost in the sumptuous surroundings. Douglas seemed to sense his unease, squeezing him reassuringly. “This way, love.” He led Martin round a corner, towards what Martin realized must be the outer edge of the structure – and Martin’s mouth fell open.

 

 _The view_. “Douglas –“

 

Douglas’ grin was incandescent. “Quite something, isn’t it?” He wasn’t looking though, just enjoying watching Martin’s face as he took it all in. “I think our table’s just here.” He urged Martin into a chair right next to the immense panoramic window, the vista stretching out over all London and even to the countryside beyond. Martin almost couldn’t take his eyes off it, but he tore his gaze away to meet Douglas’ delighted beam.

 

“You organized this? For me?”

 

Douglas nodded. “I’ve had this idea up my sleeve for a while, now.”

 

Martin was flabbergasted. “How long?”

 

“Oh, a month, give or take.” Just then, the waitress arrived with their drinks. Served in the champagne flutes, the fizzy juice really did resemble genuine champagne. “Aha! Thanks.” Douglas took the glasses, pushing one gently towards Martin – who was still stunned at the attention Douglas was lavishing on him. “Here.”

 

Martin took it. “Th-thank you.” He reached for Douglas’ hand, caressing it where it lay on the table. “I don’t deserve this.”

 

“Oh, you do.” Douglas nodded firmly. “There’s a reason, you know.”

 

“Oh?” Martin tried to imagine why, but couldn’t think of anything.

 

“You know you asked me to look after all your post for you, while you weren’t well?” The captain nodded. It had been one of his first requests to Douglas, when he’d initially given in and gone to the doctor. Post – bills and letters and organization – had all felt like much too much at the time. He’d just started to deliberate, now he was feeling a bit better, whether he should take the responsibility back – but he hadn’t voiced the thought yet.

 

He focused back on Douglas again as his partner carried on speaking. “Well, you got a letter the other day, and I opened it, like I have been with all your mail.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“Here.” Douglas fished inside his smart jacket and handed Martin a white envelope. “You can read it if you like, of course. But – to sum up – because really, I’ve been keeping this secret for two days already, and I can’t, anymore –“ He winked – “it’s from your doctor. That appointment you went to last Wednesday, remember?”

 

Martin nodded, his heart beating faster, not daring to imagine, not daring to believe –

 

“You’re fit to fly again, Captain Crieff.”

 

Martin froze. There was a long pause. At length – “Really?” he squeaked, not even registering humiliation at the high-pitch of his question.

 

Douglas nodded, grinning. “Absolutely. Really. _Oomph!_ ” Martin had flung himself round the table and straight into Douglas’ arms.

 

“I can fly, I can fly, I can fly…” His heart feeling lighter than it had done in half a year, Martin pulled back at last. He kissed Douglas suddenly, deeply, taking his first officer totally aback, judging by the way his lip was accidentally and momentarily nipped; but Douglas quickly recovered himself and kissed back passionately, his arms holding Martin tightly close.

 

Martin suddenly remembered they were in public – _whoops_ – and drew away, now smiling as widely as Douglas. “That’s why we’re here? That’s why you’re treating me to all this –“ he waved his hand, incredulous still – “opulence? Luxury?”

 

“Well, partly.” Douglas gently supported him back to his chair. “There was one other reason, though.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

Douglas took a moment to savour Martin’s delighted face before answering. “I know you, Captain. You won’t want to wait a single second longer than you have to before you get back in the air… but our next flight’s not scheduled for three more days.”

 

Martin had indeed registered that fact, and was itching to be in the skies already. He raised a curious eyebrow, prompting Douglas to continue.

 

“Well… I know this isn’t quite the same… but it’s the closest I can come.” Douglas pressed a kiss to the backs of Martin’s knuckles. “Where we’re sitting – we’re – ooh – 1.2 metres into commercial airspace.” Martin’s mouth dropped open, and Douglas laughed. “Welcome back to the sky, Captain Crieff.”

 

Martin’s soul was dancing as he threw himself into Douglas’ embrace once more, other patrons be damned. It wasn’t the end of the road for his mental health troubles, he knew – but just then, he knew, _knew_ to the depths of his being, that everything really would be alright with his irritating brain eventually. Because Douglas was with him, and he was with Douglas; and that was the way they would stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken liberties with my description of The Shard, never having been to their champagne bar - so apologies if you're lucky enough to be familiar with it, you won't recognise it here! Also - the pinnacle of the building really is about 4m into commercial airspace - whether the bar itself is high enough or not to count as being in airspace in real life, I don't know. In my head it is, because as canon has taught us, Douglas really is romantic - and does his research, whether on HP sauce or building heights ;)

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on Tumblr at jay-eagle.tumblr.com .


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